


not a team-up

by darkavenger



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:45:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7180973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That last guy. If I’d have let you kill him, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt - and he wouldn’t have gotten away.”</p><p>“Does that mean you regret stopping me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a team-up

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for a writing meme.

“You’re waiting for the right moment to say I told you so, aren’t you?”

Matt hears Frank huff out an amused breath and the hands deftly wrapping bandages around his ribs pause .

“Now what would I say a thing like that for?”

“That last guy. If I’d have let you kill him, I wouldn’t have gotten hurt - and he wouldn’t have gotten away.”

“Does that mean you regret stopping me?”

Matt snorts, and regrets it, cracked ribs protesting. “ Do I regret pinning you to the ground to stop you committing murder? Of course not.”

Frank chuckles, a rare sound, and Matt thinks he sounds almost fond. “Of course not.” His hands continue winding the bandage round. “Sure a good lawyer could argue that it was self-defence.”

“I’m sure a good lawyer wouldn’t perjure himself.”

Frank’s hands pause again for a fraction, but when he speaks it’s not with anger but with the kind of sober stone cold certainty that’s so much worse. “He had a gun.”

“And you’re well-trained enough that you don’t need to resort to murder to stop him.”

Frank doesn’t respond, but Matt knows he hasn’t even managed to put a chip in the ironcast conviction of Frank Castle. He believes with a kind of unwavering faith that criminals need to be killed, that there is no such thing as rehabilitation. Not for the criminals, and not for Frank himself. Matt may play at both judge and jury, but he stops short of playing executioner.

It falls silent, or as silent as it either gets when you have heightened senses. Matt can hear traffic, can hear sirens, can hear a man laugh, three blocks away, a child cry - in tiredness not pain or fear, and can hear the steady beat of Frank’s heart, a beat as individual and distinctive as a fingerprint. 

Matt winces a little as Frank finishes wrapping the bandages, and tucks the end neatly away, and he feels Frank’s hand, roughened but gentle, pause and linger against his bare skin. He sucks in a breath, both to check that Frank hasn’t wrapped the bandages too tight, and also because his heart is suddenly pounding, like a drum in his ears. Surely even Frank must hear it.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine. I’ve had worse.” Matt’s deliberatively dismissive, doesn’t want Frank’s concern, doesn’t want the warmth of his hand against bare skin, doesn’t want this. Whatever this is. “I need to get back out there. That guy’s dangerous.”

“You’re hurt, you need to stay put.”

“I need to bring him in,” Matt corrects, getting unsteadily to his feet.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Matt laughs woodenly. “You mean you’ll find him and kill him.”

Frank doesn’t argue.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Good thing I’m not asking,,” Frank says, and then without warning he throws a punch, catching Matt in the stomach.

Matt folds like an accordion. He doubles over, retching, the spasms sending electric shocks of pain through him as muscles contract over his ribs.

“Sorry choirboy, consider it payback for earlier.” A hand on his back, warm, for an instant.

And then the Punisher is gone.


End file.
